"This won't do!" she reflected, shaking herself. "If I go to sleep and tumble off this old root I'll startle away all the fish in the creek."

She looked doubtfully at the still water, now and then rippled by the splash of a leaping fish. "No good when they jump like that," said Norah to herself. "I guess I'll go and explore."

She wound up her line quickly, and flung her bait to the lazy inhabitants of the creek as a parting gift. Then, unnoticed by the boys, she scrambled out of the tree and climbed up the bank, getting her blue riding-skirt decidedly muddy--not that Norah's free and independent soul had ever learned to tremble at the sight of muddy garments. She hid her fishing tackle in a stump, and made her way along the bank.

A little farther up she came across black Billy--a very cheerful aboriginal, seeing that he had managed to induce no less than nine blackfish to leave their watery bed.

"Oh, I say!" said Norah, round-eyed and envious. "How do you manage it, Billy? We can't catch one."

Billy grinned. He was a youth of few words.

"Plenty bob-um float," he explained lucidly. "Easy 'nuff. You try."

"No, thanks," said Norah, though she hesitated for a moment. "I'm sick of trying--and I've no luck. Going to cook 'em for dinner, Billy?"

"Plenty!" a.s.sented Billy vigorously. It was his favourite word, and meant almost anything, and he rarely used another when he could make it suffice.

"That's a good boy," said Norah, approvingly, and black eighteen grinned from ear to ear with pleasure at the praise of twelve-year-old white.

"I'm going for a walk, Billy. Tell Master Jim to coo-ee when lunch is ready."

"Plenty," said Billy intelligently.

Norah turned from the creek and entered the scrub. She loved the bush, and was never happier than when exploring its recesses. A born bushmaid, she had never any difficulty about finding her way in the scrub, or of retracing her steps. The faculty of bushmanship must be born in you; if you have it not naturally, training very rarely gives it.

She rambled on aimlessly, noting, though scarcely conscious that she did so, the bush sights and scenes on either hand--clinging creepers and twining plants, dainty ferns, nestling in hollow trees, cl.u.s.ters of maidenhair under logs; pheasants that hopped noiselessly in the shade, and a wallaby track in some moist, soft earth. Once she saw a carpet snake lying coiled in a tussock and, springing for a stick, she ran at it, but the snake was too quick for her and she was only in time to hit at its tail as it whisked down a hole. Norah wandered on, feeling disgusted with herself.

Suddenly she stopped in amazement.

She was on the edge of a small clear s.p.a.ce, at the farther side of which was a huge blue-gum tree. Tall trees ringed it round, and the whole s.p.a.ce was in deep shade. Norah stood rooted to the ground in surprise.

For at the foot of the big blue-gum was a strange sight, in that lonely place. It was nothing more or less than a small tent.

The flap of the tent was down, and there were no inhabitants to be seen; but all about were signs of occupation. A well-blackened billy hung from the ridge-pole. Close to the tent was a heap of dry sticks, and a little farther away the ashes of a fire still smouldered, and over them a blackened bough, supported by two forked sticks, showed that the billy had many times been boiled there. The little camp was all very neat and tidy. "It looks quite home-like," said Norah to herself.

As she watched, the flap of the tent was raised, and a very old man came out. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double in stooping under the canvas of the low tent. A queer old man, Norah thought him, as she drew back instinctively into the shadow of the trees. When he straightened himself he was wonderfully tall--taller even than Dad, who was over six feet. He wore no hat, and his hair and beard were very long, and as white as snow. Under bushy white eyebrows, a pair of bright blue eyes twinkled. Norah decided that they were nice eyes.

But he certainly was queer. His clothes would hardly have pa.s.sed muster in Collins Street, and would even have attracted attention in Cunjee. He was dressed entirely in skins--wallaby skins, Norah guessed, though there was an occasional section that looked like 'possum. They didn't look bad, either, she thought--a kind of sleeved waistcoat, and loose trousers, that were met at the knee by roughly-tanned gaiters, or leggings. Still, the whole effect was startling.

The old man walked across to his fire and, kneeling down, carefully raked away the ashes. Then he drew out a damper--Norah had never seen one before, but she knew immediately that it was a damper. It looked good, too--nicely risen, and brown, and it sent forth a fragrance that was decidedly appetizing. The old man looked pleased "Not half bad!" he said aloud, in a wonderfully deep voice, which sounded so amazing in the bush silence that Norah fairly jumped.

The old man raked the ashes together again, and placed some sticks on them, after which he brought over the billy, and hung it above the fire to boil. The fire quickly broke into a blaze, and he picked up the damper again, and walked slowly back to the tent, where he paused to blow the dust from the result of his cookery.

At this moment Norah became oppressed with a wild desire to sneeze. She fought against it frantically, nearly choking in her efforts to remain silent, while she wildly explored in her pockets for a nonexistent handkerchief.

As the water bursts from the dam the more violently because of its imprisonment, so Norah's sneeze gained intensity and uproar from her efforts to repress it. It came--

"A--tish--oo--oo!"

The old man started violently. He dropped his damper and gazed round.

"What on earth's that?" he said. "Who's there?" For a moment Norah hesitated. Should she run for her life? But a second's thought showed her no real reason why she should run. She was not in the least frightened, for it never occurred to Norah that anyone could wish to hurt her; and she had done nothing to make him angry. So she modestly emerged from behind a friendly tree and said meekly, "It's me."

"'Me', is it?" said the old man, in great astonishment. He stared hard at the little figure in the blue blouse and serge riding-skirt--at the merry face and the dark curls crowned by the shady Panama hat. "'Me ',"

he repeated. "'Me' looks rather nice, I think. But what's she doing here?"

"I was looking at you," Norah exclaimed.

"I won't be unpolite enough to mention that a cat may look at a king,"

said the old man. "But don't you know that no one comes here? No young ladies in blue dresses and brown curls--only wombats and wallabies, and ring-tailed 'possums--and me. Not you--me, but me--me! How do you account for being here?"

Norah laughed. She decided that she liked this very peculiar old man, whose eyes twinkled so brightly as he spoke.

"But I don't think you know," she said. "Quite a lot of other people come here--this is Anglers' Bend. At least, Anglers' Bend's quite close to your camp. Why, only, to-day there's Jim and the boys, and black Billy, and me! We're not wallabies!"

"Jim--and the boys--and black Billy--and me!" echoed the old man faintly. "Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! And I thought I had found the back of beyond, where I would never see anyone more civilized than a bunyip! But--I've been here for three months, little lady, and have never come across anyone. Are you sure you're quite serious?"

"Quite," Norah answered. "Perhaps it was that no one came across you, you know, because people really do come here to fish. Dad and I camp here sometimes, but we haven't been for more than three months."

"Well, I must move, that's all," said the old man. "I do like quiet--it's annoying enough to have to dress up and go into a township now and then for stores. How do you like my clothes, by the way? I may as well have a feminine opinion while I have the chance."

"Did you make them yourself?" asked Norah.

"Behold how she fences!" said the old man. "I did indeed!"

"Then they do you proud!" said Norah solemnly.

The old man laughed.

"I shall prize your expression of opinion," he said. "May I ask the name of my visitor?"

"I'm Norah. Please who are you?"

"That's a different matter," said the other, looking nonplussed. "I certainly had a name once, but I've quite forgotten it. I have an excellent memory for forgetting. Would you think I was a bunyip? I'd be delighted if you could!"

"I couldn't." Norah shook her head. "But I'll tell you what I think you are."

"Do."

"A hermit!"

The old man's face cleared.

"My dear Miss Norah," he said, "you've made a profound discovery. I am--I am--a hermit! Thank you very much. Being a hermit my resources are scanty, but may I hope that you will have lunch with me?

"I can't, I'm afraid," said Norah, looking affectionately at the damper.

"The boys will be looking for me, if I don't go back. Listen--there's Jim coo-eeing now!"

"And who may Jim be?" queried the Hermit, a trifle uneasily.

"Jim's my brother," Norah said. "He's fifteen, and he's just splendid.